Watching 101
by monanotlisa
Summary: Remember when and how Wes and Angel first met in Sunnydale? Written for JustHuman in Mer's Back-In-The-Day Ficathon.


"Watch it, Jeeves!"  
  
The shove from behind makes Wesley stumble and stare at the burly boy in a red-and-white jacket brushing past him. The sneer on his young face startles Wesley even more than being handled so roughly does, to be frank; but the boy is gone too fast for him to send one of his bitingly clever retorts his way.  
  
Well. It would probably be swallowed by the noise, in any case.  
  
Wesley is honestly surprised that these people attempt conversation in here, for even if the resonant techno beats currently streaming from the loudspeakers were not underlined by sharp, jarring lyrics, the numerous bodies shifting, shimmying, and shuffling around would certainly hamper any kind of verbal communication.  
  
Of course, his physical discomfort doesn't make this endeavour any easier. It is warm, and if the...flimsy attire of the girls is any indication, he is seriously overdressed even in his every-day work suit. Perspiration is beading on his brow-- Wesley isn't sure if this is merely due to the heat of the bodies surrounding him or partly caused by all these bits of nubile flesh. Best to finish his assignment soon; it absolutely wouldn't do to stare at, say, this lovely girl wearing a delicious little (or is that deliciously little?) blouse barely covering her ample...  
  
Resolutely, he tears his eyes away, catching only a glimpse of what might have been a wink on her part. Then again, it is a tad dusty in the old warehouse (manufactured goods, or cotton, possibly?) this place must once have been.  
  
Blinking, he tries to make his way through the crowds. When Giles-- all to too reluctantly for Wesley's liking, to be honest-- informed him that his insolent charge might have taken off to a place called "the Bronze", he had not assumed it would resemble Aunt Ethel's tea house (he's not daft, after all), but neither had he expected it to be a cesspool of writhing bodies and blaring music with far too many a tiny, blond slip of a girl around.  
  
However, obstacles are made to be overcome, aren they not?  
  
Wesley keeps searching for Buffy Summers. They still haven't gone over the proper procedure to remain in contact. As much as he respects Rupert Giles-- not one to easily heed gossip, Wesley is-, his predecessor hadn't thought it necessary to establish some line of communication. So, Wesley assumes it is no wonder the girl is always-- well, somewhere else, without guidance or assistance.  
  
Side-tracked by a flock of girls with heavy, glittering make-up on their too-young faces heading for the dance floor, Wesley presses himself into a sooty staircase (his cleaning lady won't approve of this move), almost but not quite bumping into a couple snogging against one of its pillars. Nevertheless, the girl interrupts her lip-lock long enough to shoot him a disdainful glare which, although wordless, manages to convey "pervert" and worse. Clearly, he has to finish this task soon.  
  
Forcing a quick, polite smile onto his face, he mumbles an apology and inches around them to the edge of the staircase where he decides to peer around the corner first.  
  
Buffy Summers-- most incorrigible Slayer the Council ever had to deal-- is leisurely lounging about in the alcove of a seedy bar, clad in something deserving the term skimpy. Both facts are most annoying, considering there are numerous dangers to face and several pressing matters to discuss.  
  
"Ah. There you are!"  
  
The look she gives him is barely more inviting than the one he just escaped from. Her lips twist a little, and she seems to mutter something under her breath. But as her face turns away from him again, it's a tad hard to discern. Insolent thing.  
  
One has to be inconspicuous in such a setting, but he definitely has to voice his dissent with her methods, first.  
  
"You're certainly giving me a run for my money."  
  
She turns to him then, propping herself up, unwilling enough. Ah, well. Progress is definitely going to be a slow process with this Slayer. He will teach her, in time, but as this is what he lacks right now, he proceeds to sit down quickly and lean closer, ignoring her childish twittering-- after all, he has to be careful not to be overheard by prying ears.  
  
"I think we ought to establish that if you're going to go out slaying, you leave me a number where I can contact you--"  
  
"Where's the amulet?"  
  
Wesley can't help but jump at the male voice cutting in, sharp and urgent, yet oddly matter-of-fact. He snaps his head around and looks up.  
  
It's not an ill-mannered high school boy leaning forward from the couch in the dimly lit alcove. The stranger is most definitely a man, broad-shouldered and strong, wearing a black leather jacket and a slight frown.  
Make that a pronounced frown.

Oh. This man has been sitting opposite of Buffy Summers the whole time; had he not waltzed in like a fool, he would have noticed earlier. Possibly, there is even some kind of connection between the two. Best to ascertain this fact.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The man gives him a short look, but very much unlike Miss Summers', his features don't give anything away save for a certain expression of exasperation she may very well be responsible for.  
  
"A friend. Do you have it?"  
  
A friend? His Slayer is sharing confidential information not only with her little mates but also unknown men lurking in dark places? Wesley hopes this highly suspicious ruffian doesn't think he'll divulge the truth to him, of all people.  
  
"It's somewhere safe."  
  
A movement to his left; and before he is able to react properly, Buffy Summers reaches inside his suit and smoothly pulls out what he tried to guard so carefully. Too stupefied to catch her wrist, he at least manages to catch her eye.  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
The girl has the nerve to smirk-- not even at him but in the general direction of the stranger she called a friend.  
  
"It pooches your jacket."  
  
These words on her lips, she tosses the priceless amulet to the fellow in the leather jacket. He catches it, and for a second, Wesley thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile flitter over his stony features.  
  
Impossible. This stranger actually thinks he can get away with such an action, insane as it is. He has to stop it.  
  
"Now, hold on a minute--"  
  
The man opposite him suddenly focuses on him, truly focuses on him; and Wesley's stomach does an odd little flip. Trained to recognize shady dealings and creatures of the night, he is, nevertheless, not so sure why he hesitates, at first.  
  
What he took for a blank look on the other man's face now looks like an almost startling intensity hidden yet very much present. Wesley is not certain if it's fear, pain, or anger, or a mix of all these emotions, but there is something just below these features he supposes are handsome.  
  
A sudden flash of annoyance in those dark eyes, and Wesley is released from the stranger's gaze when his eyes are directed to the amulet suddenly dangled in front of his face.  
  
"Walking around with this thing is like wearing a target."  
  
Wesley wants to say something, be indignant, defend himself; he's not just a civilian, after all. Yet, all the years of Council education didn't actually prepare him for being accused of negligence by mysterious fellows in black leather.  
  
Buffy Summers, however, isn't hampered by this fact.  
  
"You're gonna put it somewhere safe that's actually safe?"  
  
Yes, he caught her quick glance at him during the latter part of the sentence. If this is supposed to be humiliating, Wesley thinks she's not being particularly effective. He has done the right thing, after all; where else would an artifact such as this be safe otherwise?  
  
He turns when the stranger stands up abruptly. Tall, of course, and strangely overbearing. There is this air of seriousness about him again, hard to oppose, impossible not to respect.  
  
"Yeah. I'll do it now."  
  
Without missing a beat, Miss Summers jumps to her feet as well, nodding in agreement and behaving even more perky than usually.  
  
"I'll do some recon on Balthazar."  
  
Is this supposed to settle the issue? Wesley clambers to his feet as well, mostly to not be the only one sitting down as this tends to make him look ineffectual. While wishing it otherwise, he is all too familiar with that vague but extremely unpleasant feeling in his stomach and therefore strongly suspects that there is something very wrong with this picture. These two cannot be considering something so pointless as to go and act as if a demon long slain presented any actual hazard.  
  
"If I may... Balthazar is dead. Am I the only one that remembers that?"  
  
They ignore him. The sinking feeling grows until his stomach enters free fall: The stranger's features soften almost imperceptibly when he leans over and tilts his head, eyes closing. Buffy steps up to him and offers her mouth. They kiss.  
  
Wes has to remember to close his own.  
  
When the other man speaks again, it's impossible to miss the pleading tone of his voice.  
  
"Be careful."  
  
Wesley is still stunned at this whole scenario, however, when Miss Summers responds with a smirk and a sassy "You know me!", he is not too stunned to feel a sliver of relief at the fact her flippancy does not only extend to her hard-working Watcher.  
  
But his attention is quickly drawn back to her fellow. Who doesn't let go of her instantly but holds that gaze for another heartbeat.  
  
"I mean it."  
  
He, for one, isn't amused, a notion Wesley understands very well.  
  
Yet, unlike Wesley would have done, he doesn't continue, complain or plead with her; instead, the man sets to leave...but not without giving Wesley a look that makes him freeze once more, not a disadvantageous appraisal or disdainful sneer but, if that's at all possible, something worse: it's a comprehensive expression of indifference.  
He is nothing to this man. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, son of the Bedfordshire Wyndams, is nary a blip on this man's radar.  
  
When the stranger proceeds to turn around with a flourish, Wesley has the odd sensation that there is a lack of rising music for this picture dramatic enough to be filmed and admired.  
  
Not by him, of course. Not at all, notwithstanding that oddly deflated sensation  
  
Buffy Summers also turns on her heel, flitting away without so much as a 'by your leave'.  
  
Wesley's plaintive "What's going on?" is a lost sound echoing in the almost-empty alcove behind the staircase. Buffy and Angel simply leave.  
  
All he can do is watch.


End file.
